


Pain, Arising

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Castle
Genre: Couch Cuddles, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Married Couple, Physical Therapy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Television Watching, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 08:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10213244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: "Caught you."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yesterday (March 9) was the Castleversary, and I only realized it too late to write anything. Today (March 10) is the 20th anniversary of Buffy, and this . . . Well. This happened. 

 

 

Fear is pain arising 

from the anticipation of evil.

— Aristotle

* * *

 

“Caught you.” 

Her head snaps around, and _Ow._ That fucking hurts. Her clumsy palm shooting out to slam down on the remote hurts, too, and it’s the opposite of helpful anyway. For all her pain and suffering, the move sends the TV volume sky high. It’s the opposite of helpful. 

_Never was nobody’s daddy_. . . 

He reaches past her. Reaches over her, and she hates him a little bit. Wants him a lot, because his skin is still warm from the gym, and he hasn’t showered. Hasn’t taken the time, because he doesn’t like leaving her alone too long, and it drives her crazy when he’s here every second. Drives her even crazier when he’s gone. 

“Didn’t.” She grunts with the effort of reaching up for him. With the effort of pulling him down alongside her, even though he comes willingly. Even though he’s carefully careless as he collapses and stretches out with her half on top of him. She nips at the skin beneath his ear, a diversion so she can slip the remote from his hand and black out the screen. “Didn’t catch me doing anything.” 

“Catching you now,” he mutters, falling for it. Not falling for it. Sighing and tilting his chin up to make his neck long against her mouth, even as he snatches the remote back. “Late.” He half pushes himself up to peer at the TV over her shoulder. “This is late in the game.” His eyes fall to her. “You hate this show.” 

“I never said that.” She scowls, daring him to contradict her, even though it’s a lie. A terrible lie, but he won’t call her on it. 

“You never said that,” he agrees, a little absent mindedly. A little fiercely, he adds. “Hate _him,_ though.” 

He blanks the screen again and tosses the remote. It clatters over the surface of the wide ottoman and skids off on to the floor, far out of reach of the reach of either of them in their current state. 

“Caleb.” She wishes she hadn’t said it. It’s barely audible, and still she wishes the two syllables hadn’t stirred the air between them. “Bad guy.” 

“ _Very_ bad.” He shudders hard enough that it makes him wince. Hard enough that it pulls at weary muscles and unrelenting scar tissue. 

“Kinda looks like you.” It pops out. A thought so terrible that it breaks like a wave into laughter.

“He _does not._ ” 

He pinches her. Finds the one square inch of skin that doesn’t itch and burn and hurt all the time, and he pinches her.  He’s mad. He must be _really_ mad, but she can’t stop laughing. 

“You with bad hair.” 

Oh, it _hurts_. Her ribs and the mass of jelly that used to be her abs. Her scars and the one square inch of skin. It all hurts, but she absolutely can’t stop, and then he can’t either. Even though he’s sputtering and sinking his teeth into her shoulder. Even though he’s pinching and manhandling her like he hasn’t for months—for going on a year—he’s laughing until they’re both too weak for even that. 

“Me with bad hair is an oxymoron,” he says when he finally has the breath for it again. “Fundamentally not me.” 

“Not you,” she agrees, and she’s glad enough to do it. Glad enough that he caught her just at that moment, because he does kind of look like him. The bad guy whose name just happens to be Caleb, and in the black pit of her stomach, she’s _so glad_ he caught her just in time. “Fundamentally not you.” 

“Bored,” he says after a while. He burrows against her shoulder. Plucks idly at the baggy at-home shirt that she’s nearly worn through. “You must be _really_ bored if you dug that out.” 

He sounds guilty. She wishes he didn’t. She wishes they were both still laughing over the essential nature of his perfect hair, but he sounds guilty. 

“At first,” she admits, because they’re jaggedly honest with each other these days. “When I was awake enough to be.” 

That softens it and doesn’t. They’re both frustrated with the uneven pace of recovery. His and hers. Neither of them can quite believe that getting shot twice makes a difference. That it matters she’s been put back together once already. 

“They’ll spring you soon.” 

He rumbles the promise low in her ear. His breath is hot on her skin, like it’s dirty talk, and it is. The idea of hauling on baggy sweats so the two of them can hobble around the gym together is the hottest fantasy she’s entertained in weeks. 

“Soon.” She rolls her head to the side and kisses him hard. “I like it,” she says after a while, half sure that he’s asleep. Half sure, she’s not really admitting it. “I _liked_ it.” 

There’s a sudden, hard knot of panic in her chest. A sudden, sick pitch and roll low in her belly, and thank God he’s not a sleep. Thank God he knows before she does, and he’s right there with her. His arms are too tight around her, and he’s holding on as much as he’s holding her. 

“He doesn’t win.” 

The words come again and again. A litany that’s as much to remind himself as reassure her. 

“Caleb. Evil.” 

His hands are on her skin. The square inch the doesn’t hurt. The scars that _always_ hurt, even though they’re numb. Even though most of the time she can’t tell when her shirt’s rucked up or the worn–out waist of her pajama pants is sliding down, they hurt, but his palms are warm. His touch insistent enough to soothe. To make itself known, dead nerve endings and all. 

“He doesn’t win.” She slides her own hand beneath the hem of his shirt. She finds his scars and the solid thump of his heart. The vibration of words low in his throat and the strength that thrums between them. “Bad guy doesn’t win. That’s good.” 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For those who are not Buffy fans, Nathan played a bad guy—a very bad, terrible guy—named Caleb in the last season of the series. On the off chance that a Buffy fan stumbles by, one of the bad guys in the last season of Castle is named Caleb.


End file.
